


Sweet cherry wine

by TheFierceBeast



Series: Sweet Cherry Wine [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Apocalypse, Blasphemy, Crobby - Freeform, Drinking, Episode: s12e23 All Along the Watchtower, Fix-It, Fluff, Frottage, Human Crowley, M/M, Making Out, Mutual Masturbation, Post-Episode: s12e23 All Along the Watchtower, Romance, Sacrilege, Slow Burn, What Crowley did next, au Bobby, hot bear on bear action
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-18 00:48:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11280264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFierceBeast/pseuds/TheFierceBeast
Summary: What Crowley did next. Hint: it starts with a 'B'.My first continuation on from that disastrous clusterfuck of an S12 finale.





	Sweet cherry wine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [orphan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan/gifts).



~~~~When Bobby goes to fetch the body, it's not there. He spares the site - the remains of spell casting kicked around in the dust - the briefest of glances, a respectful nod. Then he hefts his pack and trudges back towards the track.  
He's not really surprised the corpse has gone AWOL. Scavengers are the law out here nowadays, demons mostly, but the others have their moments. He wouldn't even have bothered to go look for a body except the guy was human, and unfamiliar, and doing something to benefit those men who said they knew Mary. Died doing it, too. Burnt out like a demon from that spell. Plenty of men die these days but that kind of selflessness don't deserve to go unmarked, even in the shitstorm the world's become.

When Bobby reaches the house, edges inside the front door, rifle-first and cautious as habit, he's a lot more surprised. The guy is there, flopped out in the single chair in front of the silent fireplace. His eyes turn as Bobby enters and his hands go up before Bobby's even aimed.  
"What are you?"  
"Evening, Robert. Nice hardware."  
His voice is pleasant. Smooth and educated-sounding and assured, although Bobby can detect the cracks of uncertainty running through it. Bobby narrows his eyes and gestures with the gun.  
"Answer the question, smartass."  
"Aren't you going to ask me how I know your name?" The man pauses a beat, then sighs in what sounds close to disappointment. "I'm a witch. But I'm no threat to you, love."  
"I'll be the judge of that. How'd you know my name?"  
The man's quiet chuckle is low and melodic and it makes the hairs stand on the back of Bobby's neck like déjà vu. He casts around in his memory in case he's met this guy before, but he knows he ain't. Knows he'd remember: that air of confidence. Those bright hazel eyes.  
The man cocks his head. Hands still raised: soft, manicured hands, unseen in this day and age. "I knew you. Back on my own plane. Well - I knew a version of you, let's say."  
"And you were buddies with utopia-me, were you?"  
Another chuckle. Sadness-tinged. "Business associates, I'd call it. But yes. It's... good to see you again. A version of you."  
There's something unsettling in his gaze, the way it seems to penetrate Bobby through and through- although he guesses he's probably doing the same level of eyeballing to the stranger sat in his chair. "You know Mary Campbell?"  
"Yes. Not well, but enough to know she's a formidable woman." Bobby nods. No argument there. "I know - knew - her sons. I knew them very well."  
Bobby grunts. "Good enough. No sudden movements." And the man tips him an impudent little salute as he carefully lowers his hands that stirs that feeling of recognition right up again in Bobby's gut. "What's your name?"  
"Roderick."  
Bobby can't hold in a snort of laughter. "I'm sorry." It's clear he means sorry for the name, not his reaction to it - and damned if the new guy doesn't laugh too.

He wasn't kidding when he said he was a witch. Bobby don't sleep so much these days, what with the constant impending doom and all, but four days straight they both stay up into the small hours, talking lore. It's... he won't say nice, exactly, with the constant sounds of battle in the distance or the not-distance, the ever present stain of red on the horizon even gone midnight. But it's a relief to have halfway smart company. A friendly face. Especially one who can converse in seven languages and match Bobby at Blackjack.  
Turns out Roderick faked his own death. Did it to distract Lucifer, to buy them time until the portal closed with the nephilim's birth. Whole thing would've gone tits-up anyhow, if not for that freaky-world version of Mary pushing the Prince of Darkness back through... Bobby could take exception to that, except he's old enough and pragmatic enough now to take comfort in the fact that making their fucked-up world even more fucked-up was apparently saving some other universe a box-fresh fucking-over. It was important enough to Mary, at least. To Roderick. Important enough to risk their lives and exile themselves for.  
"Why don't you change into some civvies?"  
At the sound of Bobby's voice, Roderick looks up, his expression almost guilty, from where he's been picking despondently at the slash in his shirt. "I'm just dandy like this, thank you."  
"You might be dandy, but you still gotta fight if you're tagging along with me to find Mary."  
"Oh believe me, darling, I can fight." From the tone of his voice, the glint in his eyes, Bobby can believe him. He's heard that song before: revenge. "And for your information, wool twill is far more hard wearing than denim." Bobby shakes his head, an unwilling smile tugging his lips.

He's right, about that stupid suit. It holds up, although it gets shabbier and dustier by the day when they get on the road. They sleep in shifts. Bobby watches him more than the road - the guy looks constantly exhausted, but he never complains about anything but the lack of washing facilities. When they hit the first ramble of woods Bobby's seen in forever, the trees mean-looking and spindly, and there's running water, the guy practically runs towards it. Bobby hangs back, gun trained on the path they've just come from, but they've not seen a threat in three days. Just endless wasteland and dwindling rations. He allows himself a smile as Roderick kneels, pitches face down in the stream, all blissed out like it's some fancy spa. Watches him wash with more curiosity than he'd admit to. That spot where his shirt and jacket were slashed: the skin beneath is smooth, pale, soft-looking. Unscarred. Like the rest of him. Bobby turns his back before the guy can notice him staring.

For a creampuff Limey academic who talks like he's in theatre, the guy can fight though. At first he fluffed it - Bobby assumed he was dead weight, useless, until it turned out that apparently Roderick's usual witch mojo is off in this universe and he just had to readjust. Then he shaped up sharpish with a gun. Proved himself. Did for three demons at once with an exorcism Bobby'd never heard before, on his first day on the road. Put a bullet dead between the eyes of a rogue angel the next. It was... impressive. Bobby was impressed.

"Neat trick, the angel bullets."  
"Yeah, well." Bobby nods, grunts. Pretends not to be pleased at the praise. "Can't claim all credit. Got the idea off of someone."  
"They must've been very smart. Who were they?"  
Bobby glances at him, the little dark figure at his side, pack slung across one shoulder, face shaded by the wide-brimmed hat they'd picked up from a house they'd crashed in. Bobby shook his head, kicked at the dirt that couldn't be called a road. "Demon of all things."  
"Really?" A raise of one sleek dark eyebrow.  
"Yeah. Weirdest I ever met. Ugly sonovabitch, face like a butt and horns up to here." Hazel eyes follow the gesture of his hands, laughing. Bobby clears his throat. "Turncoat. Man, that demon hated Hell. Only thing he hated more was angels."  
"You were... friends?"  
"Shit no. Well. I guess. As much as you can be friends with a demon. He sure played a mean game of cards." That strange, piercing déjà vu again. Bobby glances at his companion.  
Roderick says, quietly, "What happened to him?"  
"He..." Why does he feel suddenly self conscious? "He took an angel blade to the chest in a fight. He was... well I guess he was defending me."  
"That was stupid of him."  
Bobby can feel the weight of that gaze. "Yeah, well. Like I said. Weirdest demon I ever met."  
"What was his name?"  
"Crowley." Bobby says it, like an echo, as Roderick says it at the very same time. "Rick, what the heck?"  
"I've something to run past you," says the man at his side.

Bobby listens, incredulous and forgetting for too-long moments to watch both their damn backs, to Roderick's tentative explanation. "You're a demon?" He doesn't bother to raise his rifle even then. Truth be told, he feels more like hugging the little bastard.  
"No. No, I'm human." He sounds, if anything, regretful.  
"But you're telling me that you're Crowley? I mean - your universe Crowley?"  
"I was."  
Bobby frowns. That wistful tone again. "What exactly do you mean, you was?"  
"Once upon a time, a very long time ago..." Roderick dumps his pack in a puff of dust, slumps down onto it. And Bobby follows suit, assuming they're in for a water break and story time. "There was a man named Fergus Roderick MacLeod. He made a deal with a pretty demon and for his trouble ended his days in Hell. He became a demon named Crowley."  
"Following you so far." Bobby hands over the flask of blessed water. Watches the bob of Roderick's throat as he swallows, thirsty. And perhaps some demons could pull that off, seen's as Bobby blessed it and he's not technically an ordained priest, but... He takes the offered flask back. Listens.  
"After a long and illustrious ascent up the ranks, the demon Crowley became King of the Crossroads and then King of Hell." Roderick pauses. His eyes search Bobby's face for something. He continues. "He fell in with a questionable crowd. Started putting his own safety at risk for people who didn't appreciate it one iota - but I digress. His mother was a witch. She was The Witch. Dreadful at parenting, but she did teach him a bunch of swell tricks. Including one particular, catastrophically powerful spell that once cast, should activate upon the caster's death. A spell to resurrect a living creature. Like an automatic reset on a circuit breaker. The life force is switched off to protect the vessel when damage occurs, then switches back on once danger has passed. Tried and tested: it worked beautifully for Crowley's mother, more than once. I can only assume it worked equally well when Lucifer flambé'd her." Another pause. The haunted look in his eyes gives Bobby an urge to reach out and touch that's hard to resist. He settles for a tight nod. Seems it's acknowledgment enough, as Roderick continues. "Crowley wanted out. Away from all the nagging ingrates who didn't give a toss if he lived or died so long as he was there with information or ingredients or to save their sorry arses at the drop of a hat. So he kept Lucifer on this plane. Monologued - one of his greatest talents, may I say - and time wasted and then... he killed himself. Sacrificed himself for the greater bloody good with not one whisper of thanks. As usual. Of course, it was solely a distraction. If a life was required for the completion of the conjuring, Crowley had no real life to give. No soul, you see. I have to say," a frown creases his dark brows, "stabbing yourself with an angel blade really smarts. No way to go at all."  
"You died." Bobby says, softly. Prompts. Around them the desert roars quiet. The ever present sounds of battle are distant today, the occasional puff of an explosion marring the scoured-sharp edge of the horizon. He's being reckless, sitting here out in the open, listening to a maybe-traitor spill his life story. But he can't bring himself to care.  
"I did." The man, demon, whatever he is, presses his expressive lips together in a grim-set line. "For about ten minutes. When Lucy left, the spell kicked in and I came back."  
"You're a demon."  
"I'm not." He sounds sad. Bobby wonders why. Doesn't ask. The moments draw out thin and fragile. Eventually, he says, "MacLeod was a man and then he died and became a demon. Crowley was a demon and then he died and became a man." His voice lowers. "This man you see before you."  
"How?"  
"Does it matter? Magic's a fickle mistress at the best of times. I'm counting my lucky stars that the spell worked at all. Even if it did resurrect a living creature, just as advertised."  
"So, who'd it bring back? MacLeod? Your meatsuit?"  
"It brought me back."  
And Bobby nods, because he doesn't understand in his head, but he understands right enough in his heart.

It's burning in the day, freezing at night. Rick doesn't bitch about it but when they take shifts sleeping at night Bobby watches him shivering under his blanket.  
It's easier when they hit civilisation and can find a bit of shelter. Civilisation being the odd sprawl of gutted buildings that the angels ain't razed.  
"Ricky, watch yourself."  
"Will do, daddy." Every ounce of amusement's audible in his tone as that silky voice snakes back out of the tumble of brickwork Rick's just disappeared into. Bobby rolls his eyes and clears his throat and puts the sudden burn in his cheeks down to the godforsaken hellfire the sun's become lately. Godforsaken. It's ironic, cause this place was clearly once a church, like his now constant companion was once a demon. Once. He picks his way carefully across the twisted wreck of a wrought iron gate, the porch long since rubble. The roof's gone too, and most of the window glass, the remaining scraps throwing jewel hued light across the upturned pews and scattered scraps of books. Then, "Jackpot!"  
Bobby's instantly alert. "What's that now? You find ammo?"  
"Better." When Rick emerges from a doorway that - miracle of miracles - still bears a door, his grin is a mile wide. He waves a bottle in each hand and Bobby can't hold in his disbelieving laugh.  
"Communion wine? Well, I guess it'll do against demons."  
"Sod that, we're getting plastered."  
"We ain't got time for that nonsense." Bobby knows, even as the words exit his mouth, that he's gonna fold like a trick poker deck. There's just something about those eyes, some kind of resolute resignation, that makes him wanna never deny this guy anything else in his life.  
"There's a roof." Rick waggles the bottles and his smile curves up, all warm and teasing. Standing there in his dusty black suit and his wide brimmed hat, tempting a guy with holy wine, he looks every bit the Old West Preacher gone bad that Bobby bursts out laughing for real. Selling sin to saints - all he needs is some knuckle tattoos.

There is a roof. When the sun drops down defeated and the night blots out all the light and heat in the world, it's the closest to cosy Bobby's been since they left his place. It's almost nice, he thinks, lying back on a pile of kneeler cushions next to Rick, the outside shut firmly outside for once, a lovely illusion of security. He could stay here, maybe. They could stay here. If they didn't have to keep moving to scrounge up enough food to live off, if they weren't looking for someone lost... It's a nice fantasy though. Must be the wine, Bobby thinks. It's sweet, sticky. Making him a lot drunker than it should, now he's been dry against his will for so long, since booze became scarce. Trust Ricky to sniff some out.  
"Penny for them, pet?" Their fingers brush as he passes the bottle back and it's just coincidence that Bobby shivers right then, even though he's warmer and comfier than any recent night he can remember.  
"They ain't worth that." Bobby breathes a quiet laugh. The neck of the bottle's all wet and sweet with wine and he tips it back, tongues the opening. Wonders if Ricky's spit is on it, if his lips taste as sugary, and where the hell did that thought spring from? He drags the back of his hand across his mouth, gives the bottle neck a cursory wipe with the end of his scarf. When he passes it back, Ricky's looking at him strangely, a hard, loaded look. His eyes are glittering in the candlelight but it's his mouth Bobby can't tear his gaze from.  
"Oh, I think they're worth an awful lot more." He's smiling that slight, knowing smile, his lips all rosy from the wine, and it feels like dreaming as they both lean in and their mouths ghost gentle against each other, all caught breath and stiff brush of beards. It's more intoxicating than wine. It hits Bobby in a rush: how long it's been since he's had this, how long a time coming it's been. How long coming it's been with this man, Roderick Crowley, with his big capable hands and his finicky manners and his big golden eyes all soft and fierce at once. His devil's smile. Bobby shudders. Leans into it, and feels Ricky pry the wine bottle gently from his grip and set it down safe and un spilled on the floor and that just makes Bobby laugh, breathless against Ricky's lips. One of those big hands comes up, then, cradles Bobby's cheek, thumb stroking through the hair there. Ricky's hands are still soft, even after months on the road. After Bobby seeing how quick he can strip and oil a gun: there's that shiver again; Bobby presses closer, and the mouth stroking rhythms beneath his opens wider, fuller, like a bud coming to bloom. He doesn't even give a shit anymore at these sentimental thoughts that just tumble on down like dominos. Not when Ricky's holding him close and kissing him like this, on the dusty floor of a derelict- "Ricky, wait. Hold up."  
"What's wrong? Did you hear something?" On guard, but sloppy, his eyes all soppy and blissed out, fingertips still combing tender through the hair at Bobby's nape.  
"This is... it's a yknow, a church. Perhaps we shouldn't..."  
A quiet laugh, that familiar wistful tone. "Trust me, darling, God doesn't care. If anything, he approves."  
"That so?"  
"I personally guarantee it."

He smells ripe. They both do. And Bobby thinks vaguely that that should put him off instead of keying him up like it's doing, but the heavy scent of his sweat is comforting somehow. Reminds Bobby he's alive, alive and horny, and if that ain't affirmation then what is. He's dropped some weight since Bobby first met him: the belt Bobby fumbles undone is pulled in a couple notches tighter from weeks on the road, but Ricky's still soft in all the right places all the same. Soft and solid and fucking delicious beneath Bobby's exploring palms. He tips off that stupid, ever present hat and runs his fingers through the grown-out softness of Ricky's hair and that gets him another quiet chuckle before Ricky's mouth's on his again, drowsy with wine and exhaustion and desire. His hands are insistent, stripping Bobby even more efficient than he'd do a rifle until they're both panting and bare on a blanket of cushions and their own discarded clothes. Stupid and irresponsible to make themselves this vulnerable, but the knowledge is an afterthought, lurking ignored in the back of Bobby's mind. There's just something about this man, this once-demon, that makes him feel irrationally, crazily safe. That déjà vu nag - it's what home feels like.  
"It's taken you... long enough." The words trip on peaking breaths, Ricky's peaches and cream voice gone all gruff with lust. He sucks in a sharp inhale when Bobby palms him, lets it out shuddery and slow and Bobby groans at the relief of this. At the feel of him, hot and thick and hard in his hand.  
"Oh yeah? This other guy, this other me..." He doesn't finish. Tips back his head with a thud against bees-waxed wood as Ricky's lips trace shivers across his throat.  
"One kiss."  
"Just the one?" Bobby turns his head, noses at Ricky's jaw until he cooperates, lets Bobby claim his mouth again, licking inside as their hips rock, an innate rhythm, one against the other. "He must've been some kinda idiot."  
"He wasn't. He was marvellous. He was you. And now I've found you again. I'd say that's worth dying for."  
The old familiar drone in Bobby's chest becomes a throb, all sudden. "Well, death suits you. Crowley was a silver tongued bastard an' all but he never struck me as a romantic."  
"He was." He's all hands, touching, stroking, grasping Bobby firm by the ass and grinding against him, relentless and wonderful. "Just nobody ever let him."  
"They were all idiots then." He's stupid with it, this backlog of feeling, pouring all out like wine, spending itself on a rebooted demon. And it's worth it, every second. His heart's racing: Ricky's too; he presses a palm to that broad chest and feels it, the thunder of life, and Ricky kisses him again. Circles his hips, his dick a hot, slick brand, rutting desperate against Bobby's hard-on like they're fooling around after Sunday school and trying not to get caught.  
The pleasure's almost too much. A wire wound too tight, begging to snap. The electric sizzling moment before a thunderclap. And the husky voice panting in his ear is urgent now, soft little moans, yesyesyesyes, and Bobby answers in lust-broken nonsense, urges him on until they're there, right there, they're both stiffening, spurting warm and sticky over each other's bellies, holding tighter than ever, faces both buried gasping in the crook of the other's neck.

It's a good few minutes before they both come down. Bobby riding the dizzy high of a guy who's not had booze or sex in far too long, then gets - somehow - the best of both in one flooring hit.  
Then, "Thank you." Ricky's voice is scratchy, barely a whisper. When Bobby looks at him, his eyes are wide and wounded and hopeful. He looks more naked than even a naked guy should and what Bobby hears, clear as day, is 'I love you'. And it hits him, full in the chest: I'm in love with him. I love him too. He can't hold that sincere gaze. Clears his throat and turns away, embarrassed.  
"You're welcome."  
They speak each other's language, clearly. "We best get some shut-eye. Long day tomorrow. We're bringing the rest of that wine along."  
Ricky laughs softly. Stretches out on their makeshift bed. "I'll take first shift. You get some kip."  
"Nah. You first. You look beat." It's not entirely selfless. Bobby wants to watch him, to look at him like this: relaxed and bare, warm and safe.  
Ricky nods. "Whatever's your pleasure." And when he curls up, it's close to Bobby's side, skin on skin. And Bobby gathers him close, in his arms. Drifts to the steady rise and fall of his breathing. Who knows what tomorrow's gonna bring, and right now who cares. This is enough.

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone has any recs for fic of what Crowley gets up to after S12 (because as we all well know, he doesn't die) then please drop them in the comments? :)


End file.
